In The Darkness of a Closed Mind
by Gingham and Basil
Summary: Hatred paralyzes life. Love releases it. Hatred confuses life. Love harmonizes it. Hatred darkens life. Love illuminates it. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.


**Author's Note: **Here you go; a lovely "little" one-shot to tide you over until another chapter of "Flea" is submitted. This one is the most interesting of all my one-shots, I think, because it deals with big ideas, and though it starts depressing, it ends wonderfully happy, which is new for me. (haha)

I'm not too happy with the writing, though, but that could just be me. I had a **bad** day today. Anyone know what it feels like to find out two people you thought were friends (or at the least friendly acquaintances) are actually saying behind your back they hate you, find you annoying, think you argue too much, wish you would shut up?

Thought not. All my readers are charming, cherished, loved people.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights to the Harry Potter themes, ideas, merchandise, books, writing, blah blah blah bananas.

* * *

**In the Darkness of a Closed Mind**

_"Hatred paralyzes life; love releases it. Hatred confuses life; love harmonizes it. _

_Hatred darkens life; love illuminates it". _

_Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr._

It was raining—again, even though it was June and stupid Mother Nature should have realized that. He wanted sunshine—sunshine, heat, short sleeves, Quiditch, girls in swimsuits. He also wanted to wish Monday away and make it Saturday.

Alas, he couldn't, so instead he flipped off his covers, winced at the chill, slipped his feet into slippers, and got up. It was boring and repetitive, to say the least, to get up and throw on some clothes, and wash and get his schoolbag.

It was boring to realize that anytime now Granger will come waltzing in, to proclaim superiorly that it's time for school, and we have a Head Meeting, and your shirt is rumpled, and don't give me that look, ferret.

And it was boring to realize that you must drudge up the hatred your father and mother founded in you, and wearily shove away anyone unworthy of your parents, and yet tremendously worthy with you, and you wished you could rebel, but you can't; you have your money, and fund, and clothes, and home, and whole being and life and description under the name of Malfoy, and if you rebel, it will be taken away, with a quick swish of a pen; the documents for a foster home; a disownment; a scratch off on the Will.

He wished he could show people what he wanted; he wished that for once he could ignore instead of provoke Potter and Weasley, but if he did that some rat would go telling his parents, and he couldn't have that.

And Draco wished that somehow, during this tirade of helplessness and "I really don't mind Gryffindors or muggles or schoolwork and the Power of Good, but I can't tell anyone or mummy and daddy will take away my toys!" he could slog up some other emotion than shame and weakness, and he wished he could make himself not mind Granger.

But he couldn't; that was the thing. He tried, he worked at it, he made lists of her good qualities, but it all ended in the trash and his wishing she would disappear.

There was something repulsive about her; something that made his skin quiver, that made him want to dig a knife in between her ribs; that longing for her blood on his hands that made him cry in terror and mortification.

She was a teacher's pet, intelligent, friends with Potter and Weasley; she liked hard work and didn't seem like much fun, she snitched, she gave herself airs, she made sure everyone felt welcome, she told people not to misbehave.

But that couldn't be what repulsed him; those qualities could fit almost anybody; and it was only her that made him feel that way. And he couldn't shake it off, he couldn't make himself better. So he resigned himself to a life of fake-hating and real- abhorrence; everybody else versus her. And it worked; instead of despairing he just made his life boring and uninteresting.

It is a peculiar thing, to realize ones life is so boring that you might as well be dead.

* * *

There! There it was, that same sensation being pulled out of him. She was standing across the room, bending over some paper of Weasley's. She was scolding him, and checking his answers, and snapping at him to pay attention. He looked at her, grinning, laid back in his chair, winking at Potter and shaking his head. There was something else in his eyes, though; something shining, something pure, something so totally happy and infatuated that Draco himself let a millimeter of a smile flicker on his face. 

But he just shook it off, and concentrated on Granger.

Her nose was scrunched a bit, a sure sign of her exasperation; her hair, with wispy ringlets of mud brown, was falling slowly off her shoulders, shielding her face. The pink tips of her ears peeked out; she bit her lip, tapping the quill; her tie was loosened, her shirt unbuttoned at the top, her long legs crossed.

And it made him sick; he wanted, of all the things in the world, to send a curse at her; not, not a curse—something bloody, something physical, something like slitting her throat. He needed to feel her hot blood on his hands; he needed some conformation of…of…of what?

Why did he feel like that? Why did he yearn to see her bleed? To know she had blood? Was that it? To know she was human? To know she was the same? To bring together his hatred and turn it into tolerance?

He didn't care at the moment, he just needed an escape. She was walking over, going to help Neville, the idiot who sat behind him. She was near; so close; he could smell her skin and her shampoo and a soft smell of mango.

And he felt his hands twitch; he felt his heart rate skyrocket. His face grew hot, yet he knew he didn't blush, Malfoys never blush. His lip curled, his head filled with loathing and repulsion and nausea.

She paused, looking at him, concerned. Her mouth opened; she was about to say something. _Stop it! Stop her from saying __**anything**__! You know if she does, you'll lose it! You'll murder her, and you won't even care!_

He held up a hand, and sneered. "Go and help little Neville, Granger." Before she could respond he got up, and a quickly as he could—without attracting attention—he went over to the teacher. It was Professor Flitwick, a pushover, and he asked for a pass to the bathroom.

* * *

Hermione stared out the window. It was in a lonely corridor, small, dingy; she had to wipe it off with her sleeve, but when she saw the breathtaking view of the lake it held, she pushed it open; creakily, slowly, dismally, but she did it. The glass was diamond patterned, laced with an iron framework.

It was obviously old; maybe as old as the castle itself. It was a small, unnoticed, unwanted thing, here unopened and unclean for years, in a hallway nobody walked. She felt just like it; old and discarded and ignored; scruffy and ugly and small; yet she knew, or maybe she hoped, that she was so like the window that she too held a breathtaking view—that no mater how grayish or ugly or unwelcome she got, she was a window opening into another world, a cleaner brighter place. She hoped that just like the window, she had the capacity to offer beauty—"Here, let me give you this scenery. It's beautiful, isn't it? That's what I'm here for! To give beauty! A mocking bird, that's what I am. Beautiful and necessary, harmless and innocent."

It made it worse, perhaps, that she was so unwelcome even **Malfoy** couldn't stand her. Oh yes, she had noticed—she had noticed that way he faked hatred for the others, the way he weaseled his way out of things, how scared he was of losing Daddy's money that he would fake relationships and feelings. She was perceptive.

But no, he couldn't bring himself to give her a chance, not her. Apparently she was so different a muggle—a girl? A human? A Mudblood?—that she was hated truly, plainly, freely. No need to fake on her part.

She grumbled—out loud—as if to show she was only feeling comic anger, the kind that characters mumble and spit out and moan about—but it's not really emotional; it's not soul consuming and despairing and self-confidence reducing like what she felt really. What she felt _now_ could not be expressed vocally; she felt it in her soul, withering and dying and crying out for help.

Today in Professor Flitwick's class was just one of many times he had blushed and seethed inside, looking at her with anger and pain and passion and murderous rage. It was hilarious at first, and wonderfully secretive, to be the only one to know that he blushed when he looked at her; it used to be a jolly good secret, to know that Draco Malfoy blushed not as other's do, and that only she, Hermione Granger, could tell when he was. But now it was frustrating—if someone else could just point when he blushed, ridicule him, anger him, point at him, maybe he'd finally crack.

If only he—

She heard a footstep, falling warily. She turned, as if to ask who, but she knew who it was, or she hoped it was who she thought it was.

"Granger," Malfoy said dully.

She shrugged, eyes glittering in anger. How **dare** he act as if nothing happened? How dare he act as if he had not--a couple hours ago--looked at her with such fire, and now act as if she was the dullest, plainest, least interesting person in the world? "Yes?" she spat, "Can I help you? Or do you just like following me around?" but she realized her tone, her stance, her emotion, and her voice faltered, but it didn't lessen the effect.

She stood in shock. She couldn't remember when she had ever spoken to him like that; scorning and hatful and harsh. (Just like him--she thought.) It was foreign to her, when she was always so nice and commanding and polite, but it was delightful, too, and wonderful. Exhilarating, to know she held power, and she reveled greedily in her new found cruelty.

* * *

Draco stood in amazement, in confusion. This wasn't Granger's voice, this wasn't her attitude. It wasn't her; it was some new person, brought into her body by abhorrence and misery. And he was the cause of it all. He knew instinctively that somehow—no, he knew how—he had made another body so utterly miserable and pathetic and sad and conflicted that they went against their nature and barked and bit and snapped in a tone so rude and unnecessary and uncalled for.

He had never thought his hatred of her hurt anyone but him. That he was the only victim, poor victimized rich boy that he was. Poor little boy, can't show his true feelings because Daddy will take away his pocket change. Poor little boy, can't help hating and despising and abusing some innocent girl, who of course feels nothing and Draco himself is the only sufferer. Poor little boy, never a man because he can't come to terms with his feelings and he can't rebel against some wicked, old father.

And for once, Draco felt more than guilty; more than "got caught with his hand in the cookie jar." He realized what it was like to feel responsibility, accountability, blame. That he had failed—he was not reliable, trustworthy, conscientious, dependable because he had persecuted another human, and that he alone was the cause of another person's misery, wholly responsible.

He felt what is as like to be an adult—not a man, mind you—but an adult, who was supposed to be in charge and was accountable for his actions—that what he did had consequences, and what he didn't do had penalties.

And he realized that as soon as he had dealt with his feelings for Granger, he would become responsible for the way he treated other people; so what if he lost his money? He was smart, he was talented, and he'd find a job! He would, because why should other lives be ruined because of him?

The several before the one—we, our civilization, our humanity, struggles daily on the face of the earth to bring kindness and compassion and peace, or at least another day to live. Our whole lives could be swallowed up any second—by human killers or natural killers; by our own kind, those consumed by violence and hate—and we must be careful, we must work hard, we must share responsibility. And to keep one more day on this earth ours, we must share accountability for each other's happiness; without human warmth, we are not even animals, we are rocks and stars and rivers and sand, who don't care whether the grain of sand or rock next to it gets annihilated, or whether our own person gets wiped out.

A devastating future, a callous future, and he didn't want that. And he realized that he had been on a fast track to becoming exactly what he didn't want to be.

It was easier said than done, though; realizing one's mistakes would not be able to slake the flow of sensations that begged him to slaughter Hermione.

But now he was drowning, because he was becoming mad and angry and murderous; that animal instinct for blood was back. He felt it, pounding in his ears, becoming worse as her heartlessness pervaded his senses; she just **stood** there, saying nothing, angry and careless. If he killed her now, what would happen to his future? The future he was going to change? His whole view on the world wouldn't matter if he killed her.

He paled, his chest convulsed; it was overwhelming and irresistible; he **wanted** her.

* * *

Hermione stepped forward, uncertain. Draco had stood there, as if thinking, not moving, when she had snapped at him. At first she thought it was shock, but when as she peered into his eyes, it was contemplation.

Oh, when he had looked peaceful, how she had hoped! Hoped he would make amends, tell her never meant it, that he was jealous, and fused with passion, with love, with longing.

Inwardly Hermione laughed mockingly, contemptuously, disdainfully at herself. _**Draco Malfoy?**__ Be infatuated? Be so consumed with love for you he would wish to kill you? You silly little child, how dare you assume that others hold you in such high admiration? How dare you have the nerve to imagine that this angry man in front of you is angry because he loves __**you. **__**You**__ are an ugly, plain thing, and you would do good to shut your mouth. _

And Hermione unconsciously wiped away tears; for the cruelest being, truly, is one's inside voice, who knows you better than anyone else, and always will—they know your darkest, nearest, dearest, ashamed thoughts. They voice your deepest fears and regrets at the wrong moment, making sure you know your place, never offering advice or consolation, and even the most powerful man trembles in the presence of his inner voice.

Yes, and who was Hermione to dare to be loved, to be beautiful, to be intelligent and wonderful? Who was she? Why, she was a creature of this earth, a creation of God's hand; a product of steadfast evolution and human will and independence and natural selection.

Hermione was She; another being, another person, another human, another woman, another Eve. How dare she take the fruit, that would have been rightly hers, to create knowledge and self-government and self-reliance for humans, so that they may give love and glory to God freely, for isn't the best love that which is given freely, without thought and without hesitation?

Isn't she It, the wonderful material and matter shot out of stars and condensed into this wonderful life form, isn't she just another human, who illustrates and proves the immense reach of nature, and how it is making changes even now; evolving and selecting and **surviving**.

Hermione was infused with confidence, and peace, and a knowledge that she was of the earth, and always would be, no matter how many times she was killed or how many times she was shot down, and that when she finally lay on the grass in the end, at **her** end, they would reach their tiny plantae arms to her, pulling her down, saying calmly "Come on, come on. Everyone returns eventually. Come peacefully, everyone does this. You are not alone. Everyone is down here. Everyone."

So Hermione took a step forward, and another, and another, until she was close enough to Draco that her breath tickled his chin, his neck. She was shaking—from excitement and faith and one-ness—and she stood there, looking up into his eyes, hoping he would respond.

* * *

Draco's heart wouldn't stand still, no matter what he did to quell it. His body was stiff, though; frozen solid, but his heart was a racehorse unflagging---pounding around the track, but he knew it wouldn't last and soon, if he didn't do something, it would collapse.

He looked at her, standing so close to him—her neck such a close reach in this dark corridor, her neck so vulnerable and susceptible to a strong hand wrapped around it; a few fingers pressed to her jugular would end it all.

But though his mind reveled in the closeness of such temptation, of blood and death, his body was a different issue. His body—his **male** body—quivered with the fact that she was so close—a **female**—that a girl that made his heart race and his passion ignite would be an inch away from his agitated and aroused essence.

His body felt on fire; he was eagerly and intensely aware of the heat radiating off her, of her soft body, of her chest rising and lowering with every breath, of the smell of mango, the fresh wild scent coming off her hair. He longed to touch her lips, her cheek, her hair, the side of her face; press his hand in the small of her back, bring her close to him, subdue his aching heart and his needing,

He was afraid, though; afraid she would dislike him, afraid he would hurt her, afraid she would push away.

Yet even though his emotions screamed at him, his mind and heart told him it wasn't worth it to know if she felt the same—and what if she didn't, then you wouldn't be in happy confusion, you would be in anguished knowing—he looked in her eyes to see if there was confusion or resentment or love.

And there was most certainly confusion—towards the fact that she wasn't sure how he felt. And there was most certainly understanding. And most certainly she realized what he was going through, but…

And there was also absolute and utterly unconditional love, and he knew that knowing she felt the same was most certainly worth it.

She smiled, that slow smile he loved so, and she brought her arms around his neck, entwining her hand in his hair and the other around his shoulders.

He wrapped her waist, pulling her close to him, as close as they could get—holding her as tight as he could, arms encasing her waist and back. Draco fervently put his trembling lips to her soft, quivering ones, and when they kissed it was long and passionate and breathtaking, and they couldn't stop, they wouldn't, because they had found someone they would spend eternity with—they knew—no one could hold such amounts of love and let it die or go to waste.

So they kept kissing; pressing her against the wall; making sure he stayed where she wanted.

And they kissed.

And kissed.

And consequently, they missed supper.

But that was okay, because there was love in both their souls, and they knew it was worth it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **How was it? It's the longest one-shot I've done, I think.

Anyway you should know, I wasn't trying to make any other point in this story besides the one that says we should love one another. I put in the whole God and evolution thing because they are both beautiful, and they went with my plot, and I wanted to give everyone a little something they could relate to. Mind you, I have no qualms against those who believe in God, though I do believe whole-heartedly in evolution.

Religion is a lovely thing, I think, and I am always jealous of those who have it. To believe in God wholly without contradictions or conflict must be wonderful—I used too, when I was little, and it was a delightful feeling, to know you are connected to everything, on a grand scale, that you know God and He knows you and everyone is a child of Him.

But then I found evolution, and pure scientific fact, and God couldn't compete, so I dropped him out of my life. I wish that when I'm older I can organize my thoughts and invite him back in, because I miss Him so much.

Then again, believing in evolution, and that humans are self-reliant and the whole planet is related in everyway is always peaceful as well; everything is connected and one little change sends everything out of whack or back in place. That when you die your body feeds the soil and animals and fungi, which feed others, which feed others, and when they die, they come back into the earth. That your body will feed a newborn, that your body is now the air and the ground and the river and the golden grass and the sunlight between the trees is calming and wonderful and freeing.

Anyway, my soliloquy is over, don't worry.

So just review, I want to know what you think!!!!!

(reviewers get a piece of carrot cake with cream-cheese icing!)

-Toodles my lovelies!

P.S: My Birthday was May 28th!!!

(10 (1+4) ) - ( four to the second power + 4) divided by 2 equals what my age is now. (AKA what i turned on my birthday.)


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